Over The Top
by TheSparksOfMagic
Summary: WW1 trenches fic. Private Alfred F. Jones and his totally-not-boyfriend Private Arthur Kirkland are heading over the top for a big push on the Germans. This could be the last time they ever see each other. Warning for major character death.


**AN - This is a little something I wrote for my English exam... Please be warned, this contains character death. A war AU. Sadness. UsUk**

**AN 2 - I'm sorry for that SomethingSimsy I didn't realise that it didn't quite make sense. I meant it as the allies of Britain, so SORRY! :( I have changed it now... Thank you for your help though! My friend is a rubbish beta... She's too nice!**

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My name is Alfred F. Jones.

I'm 21, and the all American hero! I've always wanted to be a hero, ever since I was a kid; guess I never will be now.

You see, I go over the top tomorrow. Everyone is. So guess what? We're all going to die.

A bleak prospect right? That's what Artie says. He's my boy-

**F-FRIEND, Alfred, just a friend!**

He's my _friend_ then, a limey from London; real strong cockney accent.

Say 'Hi' properly Artie!

**Do not call me 'Artie'. My name is _Arthur_. **

Fine, _Arthur_, be like that. But that isn't what I wanted to ask you! What do you think about going over the top? I'm scared, I'm not ashamed to admit it to you... Not that I'd say it to anyone else though... I don't want to be mowed down like some insignificant insect, by a gun that never stops or by a shell that takes no prisoners.

I don't want to die. I really don't know what's happening tomorrow. We've barely been told anything, other than the fact that we have to line up with our sergeant at dawn. Hopefully we'll be told more later, right Artie...?

What do you mean, you don't know? Your brother is an officer isn't he?

**It's a 'secret mission' apparently. A final big push – they don't want any more information being leaked out to ruin our element of surprise. Not after last time, when that French frog of an idiot managed to tell the whole battlefield the plans for a bombardment. But now, stop talking. We're going to need all the rest we can get.**

I walk down the muddy duck-boards, feeling the oozing liquid seep through the holes in my boots (the leather rotted away moths ago). The chill morning air has yet to give this fog its leave; I can hardly see Artie in front of me, let alone the enemy trenches. Even my bones are cold, I feel all stiff and achy. My hat is falling off too, slipping down over my eyes and pushing that flop of my hair that usually refusing to stay down into my eyelashes – I know how Artie feels now, with those monstrous eyebrows that take over his face, although really they suit him and I just want to kiss him between them, but he wouldn't like that in front of all these other people, only I need him here with me now, but now I'm rambling.

It's the panic, see. It does strange things to you.

Such as, make you unsure whether or not to believe that guy from the trench one over, Mark or something, when he says that the wire hasn't been cut and that we'll all be sliced to ribbons of gore as we try to clamber over the lethally spiked reels of metal. Or, whether or not to believe that the Italian man really is a secret spy for the Boches monsters and has been passing on information through the communication trenches to a German soldier called Ludwig.

We're nearing the front line trench closest to the enemy lines now. There's hundreds, thousands of us, all young men marching in almost silence, ready to meet our doom, armed with nought but a gun and a tin hat.

Some of us are weak already. We've lost our boots, our limbs, our weapons, and sometimes we've even lost our minds. We're sick, we're tired and we're hungry.

But still we trudge forward.

Barely able to walk, some men are forced to lean heavily on friends and comrades, and even as I speak, my brother is resting all his considerable weight on my shoulders, pressing the barrel of my gun into my soft skin.

Not that anyone's skin is perfect or soft any longer. The toll of war has scarred and broken us, leaving callouses and open wounds dotted across our bodies like a map of the stars; but, alas, with none of the peaceful beauty of the night sky, only the raging, burning heat of the suns.

Artie is still beautiful though. His skin is as broken and dirty as the rest of ours, but it is those scars that make him him now, and I love them as I love the rest of him; as unlimitedly as the love for our countries, our prides and our hearts, an eternity of feelings.

We are so close now. The men are beginning to still in front of us, making a wedge of bodies that looks, to the civilian eye, to be impassable.

Of course, the soldiers know better. All it takes is for one well aimed shell to tear through the air and hit us, and it'll all be over. The shrapnel will fly, brave men will fall; those left alive will be the unlucky ones, forced to pick across cooling corpses and cadavers, trying not to retch at the stench of human flesh.

I am stopping, stood besides my allies, my friends. We all try to remain positive, but our jokes are dark and morbid as we brace ourselves for the inevitable blow of the whistle, the shrill noise that will mark our fate; to die a hero, but to take our place along the nameless millions, to be forgotten as individuals with memories and emotions. To be lost to the spoils of this horrid war.

I feel a small, cold hand wrap itself around mine, and I instinctively run my fingers along the knuckles, feeling my way across the familiar grooves and scars. Looking up, I see Arthur, my Arthur, standing beside me, staring sadly into my own eyes, his hypnotic and captivating green orbs sparkling with tears.

"I'll see you again, Alfred," he whispers, voice husky and muffled, "Even if it's in another life, we _will meet again._"

I cannot find the words to reply, my mouth suddenly dry. I try to swallow, but Arthur understands. His mouth opens to say something else, chapped pink lips parting slightly, but-

The whistle blows.

We go, the piercing ring slicing through the silent air. A silence so thick you could cut it with a knife; and oh, are there plenty of those.

We're moving forward en mass, a living swarm of pain and death. The ladders are wooden, creaking and groaning under the weight of a country, a country of corpses. I'm right beside those ladders now, watching the sturdy wooden poles wobbling and splintering. I feel the pressure on my hand lift, because now Arthur is climbing. His boots are just level with my nose, and I think, _is this the last time I'll ever see him? Is this the final time, the endgame?_

_The checkmate move?_

Then I am climbing, one hand over the other, one foot at a time. The rough wood is leaving deep channels in my palms, occasionally drawing a prick of blood from a particularly sharp splinter, tearing old scars and creating new ones.

But then all Hell breaks loose.

I can hear a faint noise, a familiar whizzing sound echoing through the trenches that I instantly recognise, a fear born out of months of war.

"Shell!" I scream, my voice hoarse from thirst. The men begin to take cover when the explosive hits; so close. It's so near to me that I can feel the sting of heat as it touches down and sends a shock wave ripple towards me. I screw my eyes shut, waiting for the shrapnel to fly out and for death to take me - only instead of a wave of pain, all I feel is a cold prickling sensation, coupled with a strange chemical tang that invades my nose.

Oh God, no. GAS!

I fumble to grab my gas mask, knowing every precious second is being stripped away before me. Arthur already has his on, and although I can't see his face, I know he is worried, because he's reaching down to me, hand outstretched.

The gas is in my lungs already, I can feel it burning inside of me. It's as if someone has set fire to my soul and then filled me with liquid mercury, I feel so sluggish and weary. My limbs aren't responding properly, I can feel my grip on the ladder failing; my fingers sweaty and clinging desperately ever tighter, because I know if I fall now, it means I've lost, that's it, it's over. I'm retching, heaving, puking up some disgusting mix of stomach acid and saliva and froth, splattering to the ground.

I will not give up.

Now I'm falling, my legs twisting beneath me and my head aching because I've hit it so hard on those damn rotting duck-boards.

I hear screams, only they flit around my head like butterflies – or maybe bees – insistent but really, barely there.

"**Come on, Alfred! You can't leave me! Please... No...!"**

There are groans; moans; tortured screams of agony as those not quick enough are dying, drowning in their own bodies, their own lungs.

But the commanding officer is still telling the men to keep moving forward, not to stop the attack.

I see my English friend's hands clench, his usually pale skin red and blotchy but the knuckles as white as bone.

It's the last ting I'm ever going to see.

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**I scramble up the rickety ladder, desperately trying not to look as the officers unceremoniously begin to haul away Alfred's body – my sweet, darling Alfred. My gun is firmly in my hand and by God if I'm ever letting it go while the war still struggles on around me. I run over the top as soon as I reach the end of the ladder, ignoring the calls from my officer to walk, to conserve my rapidly weakening strength.**

**Well, it's not like I'm going to be needing it for much longer, am I?**

**I pull the tough trigger blindly, not caring what will happen or who I'll shoot. The German soldiers are coming up to meet us, standing behind a thick layer of barbed wire that will be utterly impossible to circumnavigate. Someone with blonde hair slicked back onto his head aims at me-**

**I don't see the bullet fly, but I feel it land, tearing through the skin in my arm. The flesh is ripped open, blood flying everywhere but I must have a guardian angel somewhere because the bullet _somehow_ missed everything vital. **

**And when I aim right back at them, I hit what I aim for.**

**My bullet tears through his stomach like it had his name on it, a flash of bright glistening blood spraying over everything in the immediate vicinity. He falls to the ground, where I cannot see him at all. **

**I hear an anguished wail of terror, a cry of hatred against the Triple Entente, the alliance. **

**Huh. Looks like I shot someone's friend.**

**I watch mercilessly as the other Allied soldiers move in, and take the not-dead ones prisoner for interrogation.**

**I think they found mine. Score one for England.**

**But still the battle rages on.**

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**AN - I'm sorry... I'm so sorry**

**My first oneshot that will actually stay a oneshot though. I can't bear to write anymore**


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